


Bookends

by foxghost



Series: City of Chains [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Kink Meme, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxghost/pseuds/foxghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=33854592#t33854592">Self-fill for a Prompt:</a>
</p><p>  One chapter for each track of the 500 days of summer soundtrack. Covers flashbacks (that aren't really) and flashforwards (that are) and the events at the end of Act II.</p><p>Chapter 5 brings the rating up to explicit.</p><p>(Do look at the prompt! There are other fills for it that are <i>TOTALLY AWESOME.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Story of Boy Meets Girl

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this to give myself a break from the angsty mess that is Parallel Lines. This will hopefully be very fluffy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...but you should know up front, this is not a love story.  
>  \- Mychael Danna & Rob Simonsen, [A Story of Boy Meets Girl](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPGlz0D8CPg)

Isabela was already working for Hawke when they met. It was a humid, sticky summer day, his leather armour prickled on his skin making him more grouchy than usual. Though Isabela's very existence, the air she breathed out and the swagger in her walk that cut through the air like her twin blades, made everyday a hot summer day.

"You're lanky," she commented, after the initial introductions and the handshake with lingering fingers that made it not quite just a handshake. "I like lanky."

He snorted and rolled his eyes and got defensive with that wall that kept everyone out. She just smiled at him, knowing, with a shake of her hair that set off the clinks of metal jewelry, and he couldn't stop staring at her ear, where the shining gold set off the raven black of her hair.

At the beginning he tried to stay professional, as they were colleagues. His slave conditioning called it fraternizing, something forbidden, but she was having none of it.

She was good at drawing people close, touching in the way that Fenris wasn't used to, laughing too loud and drinking too much. Separating the physical with the emotional was her forte; she told him herself that what she did was only skin deep but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

Fenris thought he could teach her a thing or two about taking life seriously.

Midnight brought them to the stern of a ship due to leave in the morning, not hers, and Hawke was helping her get a ship soon and this was something she liked to do sometimes, dangling her legs off the edge waiting for the sun to sink below the horizon.

Her hand closed over his and he was certain that though she was in Hawke's bed some nights, she had never brought him here, sitting high above the water with salt breeze in her hair and the sun setting the sea on fire. This was her private past-time and she was letting him in, in her own way.

He kissed her, later, carding his fingers through her long dark hair, her profile a silhouette in the moonlight. They went back to land on the rope that tied the ship to harbour, Isabela running down on her boots and him going hand over hand with his sword strapped to his back like two thieves in the night.

"You were married," he asked one day out of the blue, both of them sitting in Hawke's office. It was something routine and boring but she sat half-reclining on the desk doing her sorting as though it was erotic.

She had the uncanny ability to make anything look and sound erotic.

Isabela didn't wear a smile on her face - it was always real when she smiled, if she wasn't in the mood for it she scowled just as well as he did - and she raised an eyebrow, "asking about me, were you?"

"It just came up," over tumblers of whiskey and late night reading lessons, Hawke answered questions as they drank enough to make reading lessons ineffective.

"I was sold by my mother at fourteen," she said, unashamed and unapologetic. "Anything else you want to know?"

Fenris looked at her in shock. She went right back to her work, though her back was straighter and her posture more unyielding.

It took another week for him to let curiosity overcome his propriety again, this time in bed.

"You're not angry?"

"About what?" She traced his collarbone with one finger, skipping over his lyrium brands.

"That you were sold," he stared up into the ceiling, not at her. "I do not remember being sold. But I expect that I must have been angry."

"I got over it," she walked her fingers up the side of his neck, where the dark skin was unmarred by his brands, and her hand came to rest over his jaw. There was a moment where he could visually pick out how she pushed the unpleasant thoughts away and her inquisitive gaze turned into merriment, "you have pretty eyes."

He wondered if it was really that easy, but her gait was effortless and light as she led him through lowtown, to a little hole in the wall restaurant that made really good paella, where everyone knew her smile, always genuine because pretending was never worth the trouble.

"How exactly do you ... get over it?"

Isabela looked at him, expression changing and replaced by one of mild concern. "You just do. It's called moving on."

Fenris didn't understand, and he figured it'd probably take him years yet, not imbued with the pirate's ability to forgive and forget, whether the wrongs were incurred by others or herself.

The night his master died by his hand, he was restless and he paced and paced in his room until the pirate wrapped her arms around him and dragged him to bed.

"If I hate him still it would mean I still care," she whispered into his ear.

Isabela dispelled whatever demons left with their hold on him that night, letting loose all the secrets to her carefree smile that she had been telling him over the years anyway, but now he was finally ready to listen and understand.

_They're dead. They're gone. They have no power over you anymore. And you, my sweet, have to forgive yourself for giving them the power in the first place._

"I'm glad I met you," he said, years later, on her ship while they played raiders on the Waking Sea.

Captain Isabela kept one hand on her ship's wheel, stretching out her arm at him in either an invitation or simply a gesture that meant the world was her oyster. Probably both.

He never did get around to teaching her how to live life seriously.


	2. Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes go on a pilgrimage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They made a statue of us  
> And put it on a mountain top  
> They'll name a city after us  
> And later say it's all our fault  
> Then they'll give us a talking to  
> Because they've got years of experience  
> We're living in a den of thieves  
> Rummaging for answers in the pages  
> We're living in a den of thieves  
> And it's contagious  
> \- [Regina Spektor, "Us"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzrC72Xv6pE)

Anders stopped to lean on a boulder, stepping off the path of stone cut into the side of the mountain on the road up to Haven. The muscles in his legs ached, and he silently cursed the entire idea of the pilgrimage and the Hero of Ferelden for confirming the existence of the Urn of Sacred Ashes in the first place.

He should have been used to stairs by now, he'd spent over a year in Kirkwall, a city he swore was made entirely of steps, but he was getting much too old for trekking up sides of moutains against wind and snow.

A wave of healing energy washed over him, soothing away the acidic, burning sensation along with the crick in his back. He turned to see Hawke leisurely walking up the steps behind him, pulling his hand back guiltily.

There were still times when Hawke mistook entropy for creation and threw sleep or paralysis at him instead of rejuvenation, so Anders had told him explicitly not to use magic on people he didn't plan to kill.

"I tried it on myself first," the big man winked at him, hair falling into his eyes under the hood of his cloak.

Traveling suited him, the scuff marks on his armour only served to make him look more rugged. Anders stared at the messy hair and the wind-blown cheeks and the ratty long cloak that was new at the beginning of their trip. It was fur-lined, a drabby gray otherwise unadorned, blending into his surroundings like the stone beneath their feet.

Hawke left their guards at the bottom of the mountain at an inn, leaving them blessedly alone. Drawing him closer by the front of his cloak, Anders kissed him.

Hawke's lips were chapped, they were both freezing, but his tongue was warm and his mouth tingled with wild magic, never having learned to tamp down his connection to the fade the way circle mages were taught to do. Kissing him was like breathing in the fade. Hawke opened his cloak and pulled him in, the thick padding in Anders' coat fortunately preventing the points of Hawke's armour from digging into him.

"I have this crazy idea," the edges of Hawke's eyes were crinkled with amusement, and that always meant trouble. "It requires both of us to use magic, though."

"I'm afraid to ask," Anders looked up and met puppy eyes that he definitely remember making himself when he was an apprentice. He sighed, "out with it."

"I'll sustain a barrier around both of us, and you can telekinesis us the rest of the way up these stairs."

Anders wanted to chide him _magic is not for your amusement_ , but he used to be one to experiment himself. He once escaped by jumping out the lone window in the tower's harrowing chamber and casting a barrier right before he hit the ground.

The enchanter-teacher in him said, "telekinesis is a noun. Don't verb your nouns. What will Leandra think?"

"I don't tell my mother everything," Hawke waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Do you?"

"No. Thank the Maker," he burrowed deeper inside the cloak as Hawke activated a barrier.

Wind whipped at the periphery of their bubble of energy, snow parting and flying outwards as each white flake touched its surface. Hawke turned to stare at their twirling, mesmerizing paths, and abruptly the barrier disappeared leaving him to clench his eyes tightly against the blasting snow.

Anders grinned and touched a finger to Hawke's growing pout. "If we were in the air just now, we'd be dashing off the side of a rock."

"You would have saved us," he grumbled, looking chastised.

"Yes, the view is lovely." Anders placed his hands on either side of Hawke's cheeks and he couldn't stop smiling; in magic, Hawke was his pupil still. "Now keep this view from dashing to bits."

*

Another set of stairs led them to the renovated chantry before they arrived in the temple of Andraste. Hawke tried to wheedle Anders into magicking them up the steps again, but being lazy seemed sacrilegious.

"Why are we going on a pilgrimage if you're not even Andrastian?"

"You are," Hawke stared apprehensively at yet more stairs inside the temple. "We needed to be away from Kirkwall for a while."

The way Hawke usually dealt with his enemies was simple, and could be boiled down to four methods: bribery, blackmail, torture, and when the first three did not bring about a desirable turn of events, murder. Most criminals went straight to number four to solve all their problems, so by comparison Hawke was quite reasonable.

Anders hadn't known him to run from anything, ever. "Are are 'laying low' from someone?"

"No, and it's 'lying low.' 'Laying low' sounds rather depressing." Hawke gave him the hint of a smirk, but then there were trials and guardians and spirits to speak to and Anders was too busy gaping at the miracles to wonder why Hawke needed to get away from Kirkwall or to feel mildly insulted.

*

"Bit of a death trap, that. Andraste herself probably would not have approved," Hawke mused as they came back down the snow covered steps, winding through old hallways lined with frozen bodies, from back when his cousin cleared the place of cultists.

"What are you thinking about?" Anders was used to reading his moods, and Hawke was in a mood, kicking at pebbles - oh that turned out to be a skull - and watching their paths as they fell off the edge of a cliff into more snow below.

"It's all so twisted."

"How so?"

"Maferath. He reminds me of myself a little." Hawke glanced wistfully at the temple behind them. They walked by a dead high dragon, covered in layers of snow.

"Seriously?"

"He's still there, after a thousand years. We didn't see Andraste in there, did we? All those souls just waiting for the end of the Imperium." Hawke stopped at the temple entrance, touching the relief drawn into the stone door. "And they call him the betrayer. Why exactly? I mean, she's the one that left him for the Maker. It's just natural for a man to be pissed off if his wife leaves him for another man, isn't it?"

"But she left him for the Maker. The usual rules don't apply." Anders hadn't thought about it that way at all. His family were devout Andrastians, and all Circle mages were required to attend the Chant every week. No other person he knew had ever picked faults with the chant before.

He had never met anyone as irreverent as Hawke.

"She was still married, Anders. Adultery is perfectly fine if it's with the Maker, now, is it?" He had an edge of anger in his voice, and if Anders didn't stop it now, this was due to become a shouting match. In front of the temple of Andraste.

"All right," Anders took off one deerskin glove, and cupped Hawke's cheek before the wind had a chance to cool it down. "What are we talking about?"

"You. Justice," Hawke jabbed one finger at his chest, hard enough to make a point. "Sometimes I feel like I have to compete with your fade spirit."

Anders grabbed that gauntlet-clad hand and held it, feeding warmth through leather and metal. He always thought he was the possessive one, not Hawke. He was suddenly overcame with a desire to preen.

"You're jealous of Justice? Really?"

"You get to be jealous of Isabela and she doesn't even take up room in my head," he probably knew he was being ridiculous but he couldn't help it either; wanting and having and keeping Anders with him was his one selfish act in his life, choosing his own happiness over the wishes of his family.

"Justice knows that you're on our side. He knows that you are with our cause," Anders stroked his cheek soothingly, letting a bit of healing magic trickle through his fingers.

"That's what I'm talking about! It's never just you I'm with!"

Hawke was a man prone to temper tantrums and extremes before he met Anders, kept calm by his many vices, and when he was at his worst he had Fenris to talk him down. Unfortunately, they left Fenris in Kirkwall. It was up to Anders to stop him from picking random objects or people to take out his anger on.

"Justice retreats when we're together - he stops listening when the bedroom door closes. And when we're back home and you know we'll be safe, you can always give me your special blend of magebane," he leaned closer, close enough to share the heat between them, breathing the same air.

"Nine hundred and thirty odd years, Anders. He's still there. And that's after she walked out on him and he betrayed her. I think I ..." he cut himself off, not sure what else was there, things always on the side of ambiguous between the two of them, always unsure because they both fought for a cause and they led dangerous lives and as even Aveline had told him once, the constant threat was paralyzing.

"I'll never leave you of my own free will." Anders crossed the little distance left between them and kissed him hard, reassurance in the press of his lips and the curl of his fingers behind his neck. When he told Hawke that he trusted him, he meant every word. "You'll never betray me. I know that."

"Never," he spent his life lying through his teeth, but Anders was bedrock and certainty enough to build truth upon.

It surely was not because he was particularly solid - quite the opposite. Anders was slippery and hard to hold on to and his personality shifted and slid. Whenever he thought he had him understood and conquered, he evolved, becoming something stronger and harder and Hawke knew by experience that only meant more _brittle_.

He enveloped Anders in his arms, metal-clad but warm, blocking out the wind with his cloak.

He could only hope that a thousand years from now, the statues on another mountain could be of them, once they have created a new religion where mages lived free.

In that story, in the revolution they wrought together, there would be no betrayals.

*

"I have a surprise for you when we get back to Kirkwall."

In their new life together, surprise was a matter of course. Anders certainly never had to worry about boredom; this entire pilgrimage was proposed over breakfast the day after Hawke came home from Antiva.

That too, was new, the word home popping into his head as though it fitted, that it was natural for Hawke to come home to Anders.

Ferelden was where they both came from, but as Hawke pointed out as he pulled Anders under their pile of furs, "I'm definitely not going to miss the cold."

"Does the 'surprise' have anything to do with why we stopped at the Wonders of Thedas?"

"It's a _romantic_ surprise," though that smile was wicked, even for Hawke.

He traced that smile with a finger, lips kiss swollen and dark red, and shuddered to think what Hawke considered romantic.

"Does it involve dead or possessed templars?"

Hawke only grinned at him.


	3. There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die  
> [The Smiths](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INgXzChwipY)
> 
> Note from me: this isn't going to make much sense if you hadn't read City of Chains. But long story short - Hawke had Petrice and Varnell killed back somewhere in year 2; he never went into the deep roads so the lyrium idol is still in the ancient thaig. Other canon events try to follow.
> 
> Um, also, this Hawke swears a lot and I think it's rubbing off on Anders.

Anders jumped off the side of their ship, the gangplank having been shaken off into the water by the last tremor, and straight into Hawke's waiting arms. His winter cloak was draped over the metal gauntlets to dampen the impact, but the air still whooshed right out of him as he landed.

"I hope this isn't the surprise you were talking about," he yelled over the clamor of swords and magic and spears as they passed the front of the Qunari compound.

The burnt sweet smell of metal was in the air, curling from the foundries of lowtown abandoned before their fires could be put out, ashes raining down from the sky bringing to nose a scent that was both foreign and sickening in its familiarity; a banquet of roast meats with glasses of fresh blood.

"No. It's a bit of a surprise to me." Hawke raised his sword in front of Anders and a split second later a spear bounced off of it, the blade absorbing most of the shock but he saw a slight flinch as Hawke's wide shoulders recoiled at the scarcely expected impact.

Healing hands slipping under the cloak, Anders wrapped himself around Hawke and knitted the sore muscles and gave him a little something extra, a rejuvenation boost. He was pressed close momentarily, Hawke's mouth by the side of his head with harsh whispers sending warm air past the shell of his ear in a gesture both intimate and public.

"No magic. There are templars about," Hawke made no move to let him go as he surveyed the scene, seeing more of them at the top of the stairs going into lowtown. "This is why I never go on vacations. Fuck," he spat. A string of invectives left his mouth, "this could very well be my fault."

Anders rubbed a calming hand along his back, "you can't blame this on yourself, Hawke."

"I can, actually. So," he eased away from Anders, trying to speak quietly enough for the two of them over the sound of explosions. "I never did tell you why we needed to be out of town."

"No, you didn't. But you can't possibly have started an invasion. I was with you the whole time."

Hawke drew a cigarette out of its case with trembling fingers, unable to shake off the feeling that this was all a miscalculation on his part. Innocents getting caught in the crossfire, the factories in lowtown going up in flames, collapses all over the city because Kirkwall was built on Kirkwall, so many air pockets for buildings to fall into.

It was exactly what a mistake looked like.

A hand over his, lighting his cigarette, reminded him that he never answered Anders. He took one long drag, steadied his breath. He crouched down to avoid falling over when a shockwave hit them and pulled Anders behind him, his cloak catching scattered falling debris.

"Leaving Kirkwall was Zevran's idea." Hawke said, once he was sure his voice would come across as steady, "it's all politics. Saemus confided in me that he was going to convert to the Qun, so Dumar's without a successor. He never would have succeeded his father, anyhow. A Qunari sympathizer can't be viscount."

"You had the viscount assassinated?" Dumar was one of the good ones. Not very effective, sure, but definitely not a bad man, either.

"No. Dumar will be stepping down anyway with his son turning Viddathari. It's Meredith Stannard I needed dead," he grinned as he saw the reverence that came over Anders' face, an almost-glow that came from Justice. "With Dumar stepping down and Meredith gone, there'd be a power vacuum. That's where I come in. Except it looks like the Arishok took advantage of the confusion as well."

Anders, even in the face of all this destruction, had to stop himself from rejoicing over the news that Meredith Stannard was dead. It wasn't the answer to everything, the hydra had many heads and Hawke only managed to cut one off, but Knight Captain Cullen was more tolerant and level-headed than Meredith any day.

Still he couldn't stop the quip as it left his mouth, "and here I thought it was an explosive welcoming party."

"Fuck no. I have a contingency plan," Hawke stared ahead, and what was that look - apprehension? "We are going to the barracks. I'll clear a path for us."

Only fifteen men went on their trip with them to Ferelden; Fenris' idea of a token guard. At a predetermined signal from Hawke, they surrounded Anders on all sides as their leader forged ahead.

"What the fuck?" He pushed at one of them, "I'm not a child. I can fight just as well as any of you."

"Apologies, healer." One of the helmed mercenaries nodded at him, one hand on Anders' elbow and shield in the other. "Perhaps in the near future we can begin your sword training, but at the present moment our job is to prevent you from doing anything 'foolhardy.'"

"Well, who's going to protect him?" Anders said in time to match his words to the sounds of an Arvaraad tumbling down the steps, headless, and an electrical storm above dying to nothing as Hawke targeted mostly only the handlers of the Qunari mages.

Hawke turned long enough to wink and wave before running straight into the fray again.

"We try not to get in his way," the man who had his hand on Anders' elbow said, shaking his head.

They fought up the steps to lowtown. There were mages and templars in the streets, fighting on the same side. As much as the chantry would loathe to openly admit, the only reason why the entirety of Thedas hadn't converted to the Qun already was their command of the Circle mages.

Elemental storms swept through the narrow streets. Hawke clenched his hands over the pommel of his great sword, itching to join in - force magic would have been so useful right now, but his blade would have to do.

Swinging his sword in an arc, Hawke practically flew up the steps, letting that extra bit of rejuvenation power push him through each pump of his legs. The enchanted blade absorbed an incoming blanket of lightning, dissipating it to nothing, and he smiled at the slight wavering of surprise in the tilt of a mask before he decapitated the Saarebas.

Hawke moved through the streets like a hurricane, and before long the streets under the steps leading to hightown were clear.

"Stay behind me," Hawke spotted the Knight Captain, Cullen, in the distance. They had an understanding, but secrets were only kept as long as the templars could feign ignorance.

Which would be rather difficult to do once he saw Anders flinging fireballs on an open street.

"You have the best timing, Serah Hawke," Cullen sounded a little stressed, and he looked as if he aged five years since Hawke left for Ferelden. "Bethany and Ser Carver are already in hightown, and my men and I are on our way to join them, but as you see we were delayed."

"What happened, Knight Captain? My ship docked only an hour ago and it's been nothing but chaos."

"Knight Commander, now." For someone so freshly promoted, he did not look pleased with his new position at all. "Meredith Stannard was killed in the line of duty less than a week ago. Saemus Dumar turned Viddathari yesterday. The details were vague, but Guard Captain Aveline sent a note to me earlier today that she was heading down to the Qunari compound and might have need of reinforcements. I saw the first explosions while I was still on the ferry and sent back for any mage who passed their harrowing and every templar we can spare, and your siblings insisted on moving ahead."

"Aveline. I should have known," Hawke rolled his eyes. That woman had too much honour and not enough political sense - she probably went into the Qunari compound to demand the return of the viscount's son. Beth and Carver were both aware of his plan; in the event of Qunari attacking the city, the twins' job was to get home and guard their mother. "Knight Commander Cullen. The Red Irons will protect the city alongside the templars. You have my sword."

"Thank you, Serah Hawke." They shook hands, Cullen nodding briefly at Anders before trudging up the stairs. One of the younger templars, wearing rankless leather and plate mail, turned with his gaze lingering on Anders' bladed staff a second too long. Hawke stepped into his field of vision, metal boots scuffing the ground a little too loudly.

Cullen turned his head and shouted, "come along, men."

With the streets cleared and Hawke's sword sheathed at last, his guards stepped to the sides and back, forming protective shield walls. Anders moved closer to Hawke, barely missing the foot of his long traveling cloak, and whispered, "why do I get the feeling that he's on your payroll?"

"Good Ser Cullen is impervious to bribery, unfortunately - he's not interested in drugs, women, or gold. And he's not corrupt enough for blackmail. So no, he's not on my payroll. But," his arm shot out to grab at Anders' coat just before a low rumble in the ground turned into a quake that shook Anders off his feet, pulling him forward to avoid a tumble down the stairs. "I saved his hide from an abomination and a slew of shades when I was just a mercenary."

"Blood debt. You really know how to make friends."

Hawke heard enough sarcasm in there to want to counter, "oh, and how does the darktown healer make friends?"

"Hmm. Did you plan the attack and then jumped in to save the day?"

"Is that what you think of me? Holy Andraste. I'm not that much of a bastard." Hawke smirked, glancing sidelong for a second. "Most of the time."

"I know when you're deflecting, Hawke."

"It was an accident, I swear. Blood mages embedding demons in templars - nasty business, that."

Hawke held out his hand for Anders as they neared the top of the stairs. It was pandemonium as far as the eyes could see, and instead of running straight into the battle, Hawke pulled Anders behind a half-destroyed stall, the canvas creating a makeshift shelter where it ripped off at the top, draping over a slat of wood.

"What are you doing?" Anders hissed at him. "They need our help!"

"Thirty seconds," Hawke dropped his sword and swept Anders up by his waist.

Then his back was against a pillar as his staff clattered to the ground, Hawke's mouth hot on his, tongue insistent, probing and desperate, leaving him no answer but one, to reply in full as Hawke's strength held him aloft.

 _Now is not the time_ , Anders wanted to say, as Hawke pulled away finally, one hand still holding him against the pillar. His eyes were closed and he rested his forehead against Anders' a moment, his expression unreadable, "Hawke?"

"I," he began, his shark blue eyes staring in front of him but focusing on something distant. Then he closed them again, pausing, and the stall next to them burst into flames, giving him no chance to finish his thought.

They were both on the ground then, Hawke's cloak wrapped around them both as he was rolled away from the fire, arm behind his neck softening the fall.

"Madness. How the fuck does something like this 'please the Qun' I wonder," Hawke stared out at the fight in the square; one cornered mage had summoned a pride demon and that was where the fireball came from.

"Idiots. Now we all get to fight a pride demon. Just perfect." Hawke began to laugh. _Can't go a day in Kirkwall without seeing an abomination._

He helped Anders up, the solid stone beneath him seemed to shake with the continued flow of magic from the Circle mages and the saarebaas, "I'm going to go have a talk with the Arishok. You're going with Isabela."

Anders stared up at his young man, complexion light again from their trip to frigid Ferelden, hair graying at his temples and a week-old salt and pepper beard making him look much older. He wore a playful smirk that didn't reach his eyes red-rimmed from soot and smoke with the sting of gaatlok in the air.

"You are not leaving me behind," Anders picked up his staff, tapping the end of it against the stone in emphasis. "You can't go off fighting without me."

Anders was getting very sick of being treated as if he was counted among the children and the elderly - he was capable, and yet he didn't even know about the 'contingency plan' or any of Hawke's plans. They were the cause of mages in the Free Marches; the underground on one side and the collective on the other, and he didn't need _protection_.

They made a pact to fight together, months ago, before Hawke's trip to Antiva. Yet no matter how many sewer runs they went through, Anders was always kept in the dark. Having a talk with the Arishok sounded like a fight even Hawke couldn't possibly win, and Anders said the words, no matter how unlike them and how fatalistic it sounded, before he could stop himself.

"You're not going alone. If you're going to barge off to your death, we die together, damn it."

"To die will be an awfully big adventure," Hawke winked, no humour at all, only determination. "And I'm the younger of the two of us so I plan on outliving you."

"This isn't a joke -"

"The wounded are taken to the barracks. That's the plan. You will be needed there," damn Hawke, appealing to the healer in him who couldn't say no. "The templars know about you. The ones who don't agree with Cullen are just waiting for you to start throwing your magic around in public."

"Time's up, boys." Isabela peeled herself away from a shadow on the wall.

"Keep him safe for me," Hawke was already turning away, running a hand through his hair as though it smoothed away some of his worries. "I'll see you later."

"Tyrant. Fucking egotistical bastard," Anders cursed, too quiet for Hawke to hear him, but the said bastard in question threw a glance behind him and flipped him the bird and had the gall to laugh. Anders yelled, "fuck I hate you!"

Isabela chuckled next to him, "come on, sparklefingers."

"Why doesn't he ever tell me anything?" He followed the rogue along the wall under the overhang, stopping when she signaled him of a fight breaking out not far ahead. "You and Fenris are always in on the plan and he keeps me in the dark all the time."

"Hawke likes to surprise you, sweet thing." At Anders' eyeroll, she added, "he used to be the odd man out before you came along, you know. Give the boss a break."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It means," Isabela threw a dagger into the surviving Qunari's neck before waving him forward again. "He finds it easier to make decisions alone."

"What, that it's easier for him to throw his life away in the name of duty when I'm not around? Fuck that. I'm going back."

Isabela had one vice-like grip around his wrist. "Hello? The injured is this way, healer."

"Fuck you," but he relented and followed her, thinking of the words he didn't get to hear, those eyes that said goodbye even as he pulled away. It was never the right time, nor was it ever going to be the right time.

Telling Hawke he loved him while he was asleep certainly did not count.

After this - if they both live through it, _Maker please let us both live through it_ \- he was going to have to sit Hawke down for a long talk about how equal, healthy relationships work.

YOU KNOW NOTHING OF RELATIONSHIPS, ANDERS. KRISTOFF, ON THE OTHER HAND -

_Shut up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leandra is alive. I had her take a long, long vacation in Orlais sometime during As Wind Fans a Fire, which was when she would have died. It's also why they didn't run into the wardens - the wardens had come and gone, since the absence of Petrice meant the invasion happened later than canon.
> 
> When I saw how Kirkwall has stacks of stairs and riddled with rooms and rooms built by the Tevinters back in the days of the Imperium, all I could think of was Ankh-Morpork (which was built on more Ankh-Morpork.) Somebody needs to write a crossover.
> 
> [Odd Man hypothesis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Andromeda_Strain#Odd-Man_Hypothesis): ficional, states that _unmarried men are better able to execute the best, most dispassionate decisions in crises._


	4. Bad Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well you gotta understand  
> We only do these things because all we are is  
> Bad kids all my friends are bad kids  
> Product of no dad kids  
> Kids like you and me  
> \- Black Lips, [Bad Kids](http://youtu.be/lrNSjItTfes)
> 
> Note: Anders and Hawke WILL get their talk, but it's for a later track, since we've got end of act II to contend with. Warning: graphic depiction of violence. But don't worry, it's not about All That Remains. And isn't that video strangely appropriate?

Leandra Amell-Hawke studied her reflection in her vanity mirror.

There were light crowsfeet by the corners of her eyes, and her skin was thinner than it used to be, each tentative smile she tried on called up creases everywhere and making her look older than her five and forty. She had a noble's upbringing, but a peasant's life, and it showed all the way down her hands.

After trying on numerous angles and tilts of her chin, she settled on an old stand-by, a wide-eyed warm smile with no teeth that didn't bring up lines all over her forehead.

"You look lovely, mistress Hawke," her maid, a slender elvehen girl with Dalish tattoos, winded a yellow ribbon through Leandra's hair. One of the white lilies was bound at the end tightly, its petals fanning over her graying hair.

Leandra patted her flower. It was vain, but it had been years since her husband's death and though she was still a very eligible widow of hightown, her son could be off-putting to the other nobles. The flowers were a nice boost to her self-esteem, "it's nice of you to say so, Merrill."

 _To be courted at my age._ Probably an older man, who had no idea that white lilies decorated funerals in Ferelden; in the Free Marches they meant purity and friendship.

Markus, her eldest, had taken one look at the bouquet and stormed out the door, leaving an explicit and almost rude command that she was to stay put. An hour later he had returned with Merrill, announced that she was the new personal maid and Leandra was not to go anywhere without her. When she did leave the estate, she was trailed by two of her son's guards at a respectable distance.

Markus could be so stiflingly protective sometimes. Seeing how Anders was always bristling at her son, he was probably treated the same way.

It was fun having someone new around though. Markus was so busy all the time and the twins lived at the Gallows, and Merrill was so much fun with her head full of stories and her love of flowers. The other noblewomen were all envious of her Dalish servant - city elves were common but the Dalish were generally seen as too proud to take a position in the city. She swished her hair and told them her son had hired her, and they sighed in the way that all women in hightown sighed after Markus.

Leandra had taken Merrill out shopping, filling her wardrobe with proper, modest dresses that befit her station. Merrill looked a proper serving maid now, though she was more company than anything else. Leandra had been taking care of three children for decades and keeping a house and farm; not having to cook already extended her idle time, and having someone waiting on her was simply excessive.

She was certain that Merrill must be smitten with Markus too. Why else would a Dalish girl work in hightown?

"You will not leave the house without her," his tone brooked no room for argument, Merrill standing to the side quietly. "If you're out, and you need to use the privy, she goes with you."

And what was the slender slip of a girl supposed to do, protect her? Leandra was hardier and probably more proficient at self-defense with a shovel or a frying pan.

If this was how Markus was going to treat the news of a secret admirer, Leandra wondered how he would react if she was actually being courted and going on dates. He'd probably burst an artery.

She giggled, touching the petals of the lily, not unlike a schoolgirl, and stood up and allowed Merrill to tighten the laces on her corset.

Markus was returning from his pilgrimage today; the Hawke family hadn't brought up their children to be devout Andrastians in more than appearances, and he told her the trip was just for that. Still, he brought Anders with him, and she was glad. The last time he was gone his young man was miserable the whole time, which threw a pall on the entire house.

Leandra had yet to come to terms that she might never have any grandchildren, but she could tell that Markus was happier - much easier to live with - now than he had ever been. Carver never took those particular set of vows, and he already had his knighthood, so maybe Leandra could convince him to agree to a match.

Two extra guards, more so than her usual, joined them near the marketplace as soon as her steps turned to take them towards the stairs to lowtown. She was thankful for the protection, this time. She felt safe enough in hightown, but she didn't know how she ever survived an entire year in lowtown, her children always insisting on walking with her everywhere to ensure her safety. At least these guards were a bit more impersonal and it felt less like they were spying on her.

Her thoughts were taking her to strange places, where Carver was married and he lived in the mansion with his children; idle dreams, but nice ones with plump, fat babies. As they passed the lowtown markets, she heard a loud, booming sound not unlike the fireballs that Malcolm was so very fond of, then a commotion broke out near the iron foundry, and people began pouring into the narrow streets.

One of them ran right into her side, knocking the wind half out of her. Merrill moved in front of her, suddenly, a diminutive elf shield hugging her close. _What a sweet child,_ she thought.

"We have to get to the Hanged Man. Hawke's right, the Qunari are attacking. He did think it was less likely to happen than a demon invasion though," Merrill was chattering away as though it was just a nice light walk in lowtown, not an _attack_ and Leandra only just realized that the men were listening to her, deferring to her as though this elvhen servant was their commander.

A group of Kossith was moving towards them, spears in hand, though they made no move to use it in a way to hurt her, "the Arishok requires your presence in the Viscount's Keep -"

That was about the moment when everything went very hazy.

One of the guards handed a long stick with barbs at the top to Merrill, and Leandra felt the tug of magic on her skin. It was familiar, as it would have been to anyone in a family of apostates, but it was also alien, iron-tinged and coppery, with a hint of grass like the winds in Highever. Then Merrill - her Merrill - scratched her arm down one of the barbs, and she wasn't sure if she should back away or huddle closer to the mage as the ground about them erupted in roots, barely missing her but tangling around the legs of the Kossith, while the Red Irons guards cut them down with their blades.

Not a lady's maid then. Her son had hired an Elvhen blood mage to be her personal bodyguard; just what exactly were her children up to?

Leandra reached out to lean on the door frame of the ramshackle little pub, where Merrill was herding her towards, her vision swimming with darkness.

*

"Just prioritize that patrol for me, and make sure you don't go on it yourself. Give this one to Alrik," Markus pushed the rolled up tube of paper into the pommel of the sword strapped to Carver's back, then replaced the end piece after it, hiding the message.

"You're not going to tell me the rest of the plan?"

"The less you know, the less they can torture out of you," he slipped a Blooming Rose token into Carver's hand. "No one's going to suspect that, but Madam Lusine knows what to do with it. If Meredith comes back alive from the patrol, go to the rose and hand in that token."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then you get to stay put and mourn your dear Knight Commander, whom you all loved and respected," Markus scratched at his chin, mulling over possibilities. "And uh, in case the Qunari attack -"

"Wait, what?" Carver fumbled the token in his gauntlets, "You're expecting the Qunari to attack while you're _away_?"

"The Arishok will make that move," Markus grabbed the token out of thin air and tucked it into Carver's pack, giving him a pointed look that said _don't you dare lose it_. "It's a matter of when. So, in case they do attack when I'm not there, head up to the barracks. If you're coming from the docks, go through Varric at the Hanged Man."

Carver used to hate taking orders from his brother, but he had seen Markus' plans come to fruition enough times to know that all the pieces of the puzzle, each simple 'go here do that' task he was given, fit into a big picture that added up to bloody brilliant.

Though now that he was running up the steps into lowtown from the docks with his twin, ashes raining down over them, throwing smites and annulments all over the place trying hard not to hit Beth, it looked - almost - like Markus had bitten off more than he could chew.

"We're going to the Hanged Man?" Bethany sounded incredulous. She didn't have as much freedom as Carver did, so she didn't know about the secret cellars. "Is this the time to get drunk, Carver?"

"Shortcut. But I could argue that a Qunari invasion is the perfect time to get drunk," there was a scent of blood in the air tinged with magic and greenery that could only have been Merrill casting just outside the door.

So he wasn't the only one told to meet Varric 'in case of Qunari attack' after all.

They went straight past Varric's suite and the rough wooden doors of the many rooms in the pub, where Carver pushed a few crates out of the way to get to the storeroom. After that, there were more sacks and bundles filled with sawdust to move out of the way, followed by stepladders going into the wine cellars.

"Hey Junior," a voice startled him, though Carver already knew who it was before he turned around. Varric held a torch out for him to take.

"Don't call me that," Carver grouched. "Okay, this is as far as I was told - go to the Hanged Man wine cellars, talk to Varric. Now what?"

"Now I will give you a tour of our tunnels to hightown."

It was a good way to avoid an army of Viddathari just outside the stairs, Varric explained on the way. The Qunari didn't know about the sewers or the secret passages, only the wide streets and narrow alleys, most of which were on fire and there was real danger of being trampled underfoot. Kossith were kidnapping nobles from all over town and taking them to the viscount's keep.

"Don't worry about your mother, by the way. Merrill just brought her through here and they've gone down into the bunker," Varric pointed ahead of him at a ladder that led up to another trap door. "This is as far as I go. You'll receive your next instructions up there."

"Of course I will," Carver mumbled. This cloak and dagger thing had to stop.

"If you're unhappy about the overarching plans of older brothers, I can sympathize," Varric said by way of parting. "At least your brother has a brain."

"Yes, he has a brain. That's why the city's falling down around our ears." He held out his hand to Bethany once he shouldered open the trapdoor.

"A Qunari invasion isn't his fault," Bethany climbed out into an old, dusty cellar after him. There were footprints in the dust, lit by their flickering torches, and they could hear commotion above.

These were the cellars of the barracks. Small wonder that the templars had so much trouble apprehending apostates in the city if his brother moved everything underground.

"Good, you're here." Fenris' voice drifted down the stairs, sounding a little harried. "Your brother just arrived and one of our men spotted him in the square fighting."

"Fighting?" Bethany inquired. "In one of his rages?"

"Like a scythe through wheat. I need you two to get a message out to him because he's not likely to listen - or notice - anyone right now other than you two," Fenris moved back towards the stairs, beckoning the Hawke twins. "Let's go."

*

It began the same as any regular day; he went through the intel, most of which were unimportant, the machinery of the Red Irons running like well-oiled clockwork. But he read between the lines and saw patterns. Fenris was expecting trouble.

"Always expect trouble," Hawke had said to him when they were still both just mercenaries. "Expect it, so that you will never be surprised."

Viscount Dumar's son had turned Viddathari, which was within the plan. Meredith was dead, which was also part of the plan. There had been Kossith sightings all over the city since Meredith's death; that bit of news he hadn't known how to deal with.

If Hawke was here then he'd sit in his chair and they'd chat over a tumbler of whiskey and Hawke would suddenly say something that tied it all together and it would all make sense. Fenris wasn't very good at that. He was good at seeing danger and shadows everywhere, and then finding a way to run, but Hawke taught him to take the bull by the horns.

"It isn't enough to see it coming. You have to figure out a way around it, and trust me," his tone had turned serious. "There is always a way around it."

Hawke had given him a list of steps to take in the case of a Qunari attack. There was no manual on 'Qunari sneaking around looking suspicious.' That sounded paranoid even to him.

"You're looking especially broody today," Isabella purred from the other side of the office. "I must say, you look good behind that desk."

Feris gave off a non-committal hum that could have been irritation or dismissal. To Isabela, vague dismissals were never. "Tell me about it. Two heads are better than one."

"There were Tevinters spotted in lowtown, last night, going into a warehouse." He held up a report. He could read well enough now, his writing was still blocky and his spelling atrocious, but he was good enough to read the guards' reports. Then he held up another one, "Kossith were seen to be 'standing guard' outside the same warehouse. There is something very contradictory about these two accounts. But then again, Kossith were seen _everywhere_ this week. It's troubling. They usually stick to the docks."

"Well, what changed between last week and this week?" Isabela hopped on to the edge of her desk and crossed her legs. "Aside from Meredith."

"There's been less templar patrols. That explains the Tevinters, but not the Kossith. If anything, more Tevinters would mean the Kossith would keep to the docks. This doesn't make sense."

"Maybe they're ... related?" Isabela waved her hands nebulously in the air.

"Isabela," Fenris' voice took on a dangerously low tone that Isabela found simultaneously sexy and menacing. But then, anyone who spent that much time around their Hawke was bound to learn the menacing act. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

She leaned over, displaying her breasts barely contained in the tight corset, "oh, lots. Have I told you about -"

"No. Don't. Now is not the time for levity." Hawke had a stressful job. Doing Hawke's job for months on end was wearing on Fenris' very thin patience. "If you know something I do not already know, I suggest you tell me now."

"Wow, you've been working for him for way too long. You even sound like him," Isabela hopped off the desk, brushing at invisible dust the bottom of her frock. "Whatever I did, and I'm not saying I did anything, I'll try to fix it, all right?"

"Does Hawke know about this?" Fenris placed both reports on the table and stalked around it.

"Well, kind of. Sort of." She shrugged. "Not really."

"We are your friends. If you are in some sort of trouble -"

"Stop." Isabela raised her hands in front of her in a gesture of surrender that clearly was not. "I don't think I want to live with Hawke's brand of protection."

He reached out for her a second too late. She had already turned her head and moved away, and that was fortunate. Neither of them wanted to bring feelings into this.

But he thought they were at least friends, the same relationship he had between himself and Hawke, and friends trusted one another. That Isabela didn't trust him or Hawke enough to tell them of her problems was alarming, and brought up aother red flag, such as if she could be trusted at all.

"If you have a gut feeling that something bad's about to happen, it probably is going to all go to shit, not only because that is the natural way for things to go," Hawke had sat in that office chair and laughed, just before he left for Ferelden. "But also because a warrior's instinct is honed for sensing trouble. Trust yourself. You have my instructions."

Fenris did have the instructions. He strapped on his armour and his sword and marched off to the Viscount's Keep.

*

The twins caught up to him outside Viscount's Keep, then they both began to speak at the same time.

"Fenris wants you to know that -" Carver began.

"Mother's safe with her guards -" as did Bethany.

Maker he hated that. He was covered in blood, most of which were not his, but there were parts of him that were sore and bloodied and going alarmingly tingly. Traveling with a healer all the time was bad for his overall caution, "one at a time. Please."

As Bethany summoned healing energy and let it wash over him, a general rejuvenation spell that stopped the bleeding but didn't quite kill the pain, Carver began to speak. "Fenris wants you to know that the Viscount is safe. He practically kidnapped Dumar out of the keep this morning, and he's being kept in one of the guestrooms in the mansion."

"And our lady mother?"

"She's fine. Varric and Merrill has her," Bethany supplied. Hawke noticed that she was getting better, actually, the spells were becoming more localized, targeting injuries instead of the blanket spells she used to throw that did nothing other than heal scratches.

"You've really improved. Thanks, Beth." He gave her a rare smile, but even so Bethany could tell that he was stressed.

"Where's Anders?" She asked, knowing that was probably the reason behind his tension.

"Safe."

He looked away long enough to avoid the purse of her lips and the eye roll that he expected to be there. Unfortunately, by the time he looked back she was still wearing it, along with a crossing of the arms. If she added the wagging of her finger in front of his chin the picture would have been complete.

"I'm sure he must have loved that."

"Said he hates me, actually."

"Ouch," Carver added, and that was the last straw. There was an invasion going on and they were sassing him about his love life.

"Now is not the time, kids."

"Well, I'm done," Bethany smiled that 'sunshine' smile of hers, the very picture of innocence. "I can wait until after we defeat the Qunari to pester you."

"I'm afraid I do not share your optimism, enchanter," Cullen was using his sword half as a crutch, and he had dropped his shield somewhere in the battle. "We're outnumbered and outmatched by their explosives, and a lot of our mages died in the last battle."

Hawke handed him a potion; Cullen downed it. He needed this templar alive. "I have a plan," Hawke smiled somewhat reassuringly.

Enough confidence there to inspire everyone but himself.

*

Orsino provided a distraction, his siblings provided backup, and still the Arishok was the one with the hostages. Hawke hated hostage situations from this side, having known how much more power the other side held.

Fortunately, the Arishok wasn't a bastard like him; he was reasonable. The things Hawke could have accomplished holding a room full of nobles as hostages - it was a calamity that he was here and not be the one to take advantage of it.

And they said the Qunari wasted nothing. Bullshit.

He'd take advantage of it some other way through their loyalty, though his ascent was ensured as soon as Fenris spirited the Viscount out of the keep this morning. It was still painful to watch though, like Isabela not cheating in a game of Wicked Grace against Saemus Dumar.

Negotiations were at a standstill. The Arishok did not highball or lowball; he demanded one thing and one thing only, the tome of Koslun, or they would simply force all the nobles to convert and take over the city. In other words: the Arishok didn't know how to negotiate. Hawke should have known.

"Hawke," Fenris was by his elbow, unarmed. He looked a little pale, "We need to talk."

"I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?" The Arishok just did not let up, either.

"If the tome you seek is not in Kirkwall, why are you attacking us? I suggest you leave and go after it." Hawke was pretty sure that the Arishok had gone mad, since the reasoning did not follow. He needed the tome; the tome was gone; let's attack the city. Still, he used to be a man Hawke could reason with.

Fenris' voice was by his shoulder again, "Hawke ..."

"What is it, Fenris? I'm busy," he snapped.

"If you look around, you may notice that a friend of ours is conspicuously absent."

Hawke did look around, and the only one who was missing was Anders. He saw Aveline leaning against a wall, eyes closed while a Circle mage healed a gash in her arm, Varric nonchalantly polishing his crossbow in the corner. Well, Anders, Isabela, and Merrill were missing. Merrill was instructed to not leave his mother's side no matter what happened, and Isabela was sent to see Anders to the barracks. That must have been at least an hour ago.

Then all the months of Isabela wanting to chase after a 'relic' and how she shipwrecked the same time the Qunari did finally caught up and Hawke's intuition did a back flip.

"I can't believe she pulled one on me."

"Hawke," Fenris leaned in closer, though it was anyone's guess how good Kossith hearing was. "How do you feel about your chances with the Arishok in a duel?"

"Fifty fifty. He's only a little taller than me, but I have tricks up my sleeve." Hawke wasn't above poisoning his blade. What was the point in creating the best brand of soldiersbane in Thedas and not using it? Magic was out of the question; he had his last smoke right outside the keep and it'd be hours before the mana came back, and even then he wasn't about to throw magic around in a hall full of nobles. "But what would that achieve?"

Fenris was already speaking in Qunari and there was no time to change his mind. If this was the only option then he'd have had to take it anyhow.

Markus Hawke did not run from a fight if there was even a remote chance of winning.

Miscalculations seemed to be the order of the day; nothing had gone right since the moment he stepped off his ship and the city went up in flames. Hawke was outclassed as a warrior, having relied too long on magical healing, and even with that extra edge he had in the poison on his blade, it only managed to slow down the Arishok a little, not enough to weaken him.

If he was a sword and shield man, this fight might have been easier. Or maybe that would just mean one of the Arishok's weapons would have cleaved his shield in half. And if he had known he was going to fight the Arishok one on one, he would have brought extra potions.

Hawke feinted above, hoping to catch the ox man off guard, but the Arishok's off-hand weapon came slashing in sideways, slicing into the outside of one leg through his greaves.

Hawke leaned on his other leg; now he was without the ability to run. His sword was hit next, an upward slash that was meant to disarm, and his grip slipped, fatigue catching up to him at last. The fear never did kick in until the Arishok's other weapon connected with Hawke's greatsword, the long blade flying hand over hand above him, finally embedding itself in the Viscount's throne.

Now he couldn't run, and he was unarmed.

Hawke balled his hands into fists. He could see Bethany behind the Arishok, hands over her mouth and eyes wide with terror, and Carver pulling her closer trying to get her to stop looking.

_They're expecting me to die._

That thought was a bit of a jolt, worse than catching errant electricity in the middle of a battle. He felt sick with the wrenching terror of not having a weapon and the great hulking ox man that stalked towards him. Hawke clenched his teeth, determined to not look scared in the least. Maybe he could take one of the blades off of him.

Then he was in the air and there was a sword in his gut and he thought, well, that was it, this was the moment where his life was supposed to flash in front of his eyes.

He was walking away from Anders as he cursed at Hawke and they never did say what they meant. It was easier than being sappy, and it wasn't as though the Anders didn't know he cared, even without overly affectionate words.

It was a close call today though, with Anders in his arms and the city burning down, he wasn't sure if he was going to live through the day. The worst case scenario had happened and even with all his plans in place there were no guarantees. But was there ever? If that moment was the last moment, then he had missed his chance.

There was a kind of magic in that too, a goodbye that wasn't a goodbye, words unspoken that needed to be said, held off for a later that might never come. It gave one hope that later would come, even in the most dangerous, hopeless situations, like this one.

 _Never, ever go into battle prepared to die._ There were dark splotches swimming in his vision, and Hawke blinked and blinked and shook his head to clear it.

Hawke stared down at the Arishok, vaguely aware that he still had a dagger strapped to his pack some place, but this was immediate and he had no time to reach for it, especially as he felt the nauseatingly slick slide of himself down that blade, and he was thankful for a brief moment that the Arishok kept his sword sharp and notch-free.

There was no weapon in his hands, so he reached out to grab at those large horns. The Arishok made no move to stop him, probably thinking that he was near death's door and could do nothing to stop the inevitable, but Hawke was a brawler at heart, and if he couldn't do this with some sort of warrior's dignity, finish a proper duel with a proper sword, he'd finish it his way.

Hawke reared back enough to get some momentum, and smashed right back down with his forehead on top of the Arishok's nose. There was a sickening crunch of bones breaking clean, then he could feel the Arishok wavering for a brief second. That was his opening.

There was one street move that he'd only heard of, but never tried himself; he threw out a punch with the palm of his hand, aiming for the bottom of the Arishok's nose.

The Arishok howled, and they both tumbled to the floor. One of his hands came up to grapple at Hawke, but they were pinned to each other - by a blade right through Hawke - and Hawke suddenly had the advantage as he was the one with both hands free.

Having both hands free was an important thing when your father was an herbalist and your mother a foreigner, moving from place to place making more enemies than friends. It took Hawke a long time to stop negotiating with only his fists.

With the instinct of a man who was used to unarmed combat often in his youth, Hawke reared up again and punched the Kossith squarely in his neck, and followed the expected snapping forward of his head with a jab to the eyes. The Arishok turned away trying to get away from his fingers, and Hawke took the angle to punch down hard on his temple.

The pain in his stomach lessened, as did that in his hands, though there were probably fractures forming in his fingers since skulls were harder than fists. He knew he was bleeding out and growing weaker by the second. He had to finish this before the horned devil got up again.

Then someone - Fenris - was pulling him off an unmoving Kossith, his face beaten in so badly Hawke could no longer recognize him as the Arishok. He blinked, everything looking blurry and spinning a bit. There wasn't much pain, surprisingly, even as Fenris eased the Arishok's dead hand off the hilt of the sword lodged in Hawke.

"You just beat the Arishok to death with your bare hands," he could hear him, but not see him. Varric, probably, always one to state the obvious humorously, though he sounded a little shaky right now. "Seriously, Hawke. I can't make this shit up."

"Anders," Hawke whispered, and someone took his hand. It was too soft and small and feminine. Bethany. "Where's -"

"He's going to be so mad at you," she sounded like she had been crying, and why not, seeing your brother impaled on a sword tended to be traumatizing. "I am so mad at you."

"I know," he laughed, wincing at the sudden rush of pain.

Carver was to the one side of him, Beth on the other, as Fenris bossed people around to prepare a stretcher to take him across town. Cullen was saying something to him, probably suggesting the gallows for healing, but Fenris was insisting because the barracks was closer.

He squeezed their hands briefly, the sounds of the room blending into one buzz of random noise, then closed his eyes, giving his consciousness up to his darkening vision.


	5. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven't had a dream in a long time.  
> See, the life I've had could make a good man turn bad.  
> So for once in my life  
> Let me get what I want.  
> Lord knows it would be the first time.  
> \- The Smiths, [Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyFKKLMuHGs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fluff. porn. tears.
> 
> This chapter ups the rating to explicit.

He woke as one being reborn, blinking into the mage light.

There were spell wisps in the air, but they made Hawke feel a little uneasy. They were harmless, he supposed, but his father told him that wisps were essentially lower level spirits, like children of the fade. They lent a glow of eerie light to the room, on the side of light blue, without the full spectrum that gave a scene colour.

Like the layers of colour in Anders' hair, ranging from platinum to gold to red, now only gray bathed in a dim azure.

The mage was sprawled on the bed next to him, one arm flung over Hawke's chest with his hand resting on a shoulder. He weighed very little compared to Hawke, spare frame and whipcord muscles tight even in his sleep, under milky skin sprinkled with sparse freckles on his cheeks and the back of his hands. So pale. Living in the undercity wasn't any good for his complexion; neither was being a warden, probably, if his talk of spending weeks in the deep roads was anything to go by.

Hawke blushed, thinking of last night. That was - new - different, a sensation of panic and nervous butterflies that fluttered in his stomach, a tingling beneath his skin that prickled his scalp when he so much as looked at Anders. Fearless, that was what he was, since he turned eight and the twins were born. Hawke was unused to having someone that was able to get under his skin.

What was newer and more alarming was waking up next to someone. Specifically, waking disoriented, nude and vulnerable next to a spirit abomination. Those were logical constructs, words he dredged up from the part of his brain that planned strategy and formations, juggling moves in the tenuous world of Kirkwall politics. As long as he was dealing with vipers, the world made sense through that lens.

Anders was definitely not a viper. A bit of a cat, maybe, one that leapt before it thought things through, the kind that fumbled at the top of a fence and sometimes, on the rare occasion falling down artlessly.

Then he'd probably walk away with his tail held high and pretend he meant to do it.

Exactly that kind of a cat.

Hawke smiled, fingers itching to scratch him under his chin, covered with a dark stubble that looked like he hadn't shaved for half the week though Hawke knew it was only one day's worth. A moment's hesitation before his hand was over Anders' cheek, a little scratchy under the pads of his fingers, catching on his callouses.

Looking at him made it hard to breathe; such new reactions, each of them a revelation, raw and visceral and uncontrollable, and by their very nature dangerous. Hawke wanted both to hold the man close to him and run far, far away all at once.

He wanted to keep the mage with him, but he had no idea how to go about making _friends_. Hawke had business associates and enemies, sometimes both in the same person. He had family - Fenris was Family, capitalization intended - but that trust was built by drips and drops, not this hurricane of emotions that demanded his attention all at once.

A man wasn't a cat, he couldn't very well keep the mage as a prisoner, though he speculated that cats were just as unsuitable as pets.

But he wanted, how he wanted. Hawke was so alone and as much as he liked to call it solitude, that was only the truth as long as it was a choice. His solitude was never a choice; it was necessity. He had to stay logical, and investing emotions beyond the bare minimum muddled his mind.

Anders was already muddling his mind. It was obvious in the way his own body lain relaxed on the bed even though the logical response was the one he made yesterday. That very thought brought a sharp pain to his chest that felt as though his heart broke for real, not just metaphorically as described in the books Bethany used to keep under her mattress.

Hawke wasn't one for melodrama; he knew that whatever this was, he could live without, those Orlesian novels and their idea of love beyond the grave was not for him. There was always something to live for, his family to protect, and beyond that the work he promised his father to continue well after his death.

Waking unafraid next to someone he trusted, warm and tangled together; that was something he secretly wished for but couldn't afford. His parents had a wonderful love, but he never tried it himself, remembering how she grieved when his father died. If she hadn't three children to raise she might never have recovered.

He understood her a little better, he thought, with Anders' face under his palm, strong pulse beating against his hand. It wasn't her choice to fall in love; bonds formed without her volition and if she lost him the day after they met she would have been just as lost as she had done decades later. For her, time did little to dull or strengthen the sense of loss when her love was gone.

Hawke was so deep in thought he didn't notice that Anders had opened his eyes and was studying him in turn until he spoke, "good morning. I think."

"Probably," Hawke said, pulling his hand back, the gesture too intimate - touching outside of sex - and his habit of creating distance stepping in.

Anders wasn't about to let him get away with it though, catching his hand and interlocking their fingers, mouth quirking into a smile as he saw the redness that crept up Hawke's ears. It was embarrassing how easily he blushed for Anders, each of his gestures so open and easy while his own felt stilted and forced.

Life would have been so much easier if there was no such thing as what they had to face now, the awkward morning after. Their meeting was simple - a kidnapping - and the planned end result easy - intimidation and a slap on the wrist along with a few threats - and predictable. Hawke liked plans. When Anders kissed him the first time he threw a wrench into those plans, and it nearly broke Hawke to decide what happened next and even those plans Anders did not agree with.

Like the day Leandra met her Malcolm, as he had heard the story between them before, a hightown lady meeting with an apostate in darktown through the tunnels that led out into the undercity, history repeated itself.

He couldn't run if he wanted to. If his mother had married the Comte de Launcet and lived in Kirkwall all her life in the lap of luxury, she would have always wondered how life could have been if she had taken chances and made unpopular choices. Compared to what she had to face, this was so much easier that it would have shamed him if he did not at least try.

"Will you stay?" Hawke gave the hand locked into his a tentative squeeze.

Anders did not pull away, but his gaze turned slightly wary, as though Hawke had asked him to stay down here in the dungeons. "What do you mean?"

"Work for me. I run a mercenary company and people get hurt all the time," Hawke was nothing if not manipulative - how else did a Ferelden dog lord get this far in life?

Anders seemed to mull it over, then he shook his head, his tousled hair rubbing against Hawke's arm beneath, "I'm needed in darktown. You can afford Circle healer rates, but the refugees haven't anyone else."

"I'm not asking you to close the clinic," the refusal only made him want Anders more, not for the challenge of it, but that he would turn down a job from Hawke because he was selfless. "Think of it as me buying it."

"You want to buy a free clinic in darktown that doesn't make any money." Anders said, suspicious suddenly, his tone biting, "if this is your bid to buy me I'll have to tell you that I'm definitely not for sale."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Hawke snapped right back. Then he slipped into business-talk. "Look, the operating costs are minimal. I already supply most of the potion reagents in the city, and I probably already fund the clinic anyway - I'm assuming Lirene is the one that gives you supplies - so the only thing that changes will be the level of protection you're entitled to."

"I don't need your protection," Anders half sat up pulling himself away from Hawke to lean against the headboard. "I was doing just fine before you came along. Actually, I was doing better before you came along because nobody was stabbing me with magebane!"

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a mage to stay free in this city? It's a fucking balancing act," Hawke didn't move to sit with him, giving Anders space. He propped himself up by digging his elbow into his pillow, resting his chin in his hand, letting the blanket fall away from his torso to pool messily around his hips.

"You think you have the loyalty of the refugees? Think again. The reward money for turning in an apostate can feed a family in darktown for a year. Sure, they're grateful that you saved one of them, but if they starve long enough they will turn you in. Desperate people don't make good friends."

It wasn't a passionate speech by any means, but it was a lesson earned by experience. Maker-fearing Fereldens would almost always turn in an apostate, and he could strike that 'almost' if there was reward money involved. It was a matter of time before someone turned Anders in.

The undercity gangs had probably turned up at his door asking for protection money he didn't have already. Anders was also unknowingly undercutting them on salve and potions, doubling his chances of templars showing up at his door.

"If you work for me," Hawke reached out, placing his hand over Anders' ankle, knee drawn up to his chest in contemplation. "You will never have to worry about the gangs or templars ever again."

"You can't guarantee that."

"Yes, I can, actually," he smiled in a way that was both cocky and reassuring. "My brother is a templar."

"Your brother is a -" Anders looked as though he was about to go on a tirade about familial betrayals, and Hawke cut him off with a squeeze to his ankle, moving his hand up his leg soothingly.

"His twin's a mage, and when the templars came to take her," Hawke's eyes narrowed and darkened at the memory, not the first time he felt so powerless in the face of the chantry. "He told the Knight Captain that he'd kill them all unless they took him too, the stubborn git. Good thing Cullen's reasonable, otherwise I'd have lost both siblings."

That drew a smile out of Anders; most families were all too glad to be rid of an apostate. "So he's your man on the inside?"

"I'm not going to divulge the number of templars on my payroll, but suffice to say that he is one of them. And for your information," Hawke threw in the last bit of detail that he knew could cinch the deal, wording it just so. "There are already free mages in my ranks."

It was a business proposition; he was good at those, right at home in the nitty gritty details, crafting an offer and padding it with enough personal details that Anders couldn't possibly say no. The smugglers in Kirkwall led by Athenril had half merged with the collective by now, Hawke the mastermind behind it all and the man every free mage wanted to work for, even before they learned his name.

Though it was not an innovation on his part; both Athenril and Meeran hired the Hawkes knowing that one of them was a mage. The coterie hired apostates, as did many of the undercity gangs, and all of them provided a kind of security. But only the Red Irons treated them with respect, and not to mention the lowest casualty rate.

Anders was looking at him with a faint smile, "you have siblings. That's the first personal thing you've ever told me."

Leave it up to Anders to spot the least important details. Hawke rubbed at his forehead dreading the return of his perpetual migraine, "um, that's not exactly - you're impossible to talk to."

"You're propositioning me," Anders touched a finger to Hawke's chest, pushing him on to his back. He followed the movement, rolling himself on top of Hawke, and soon Hawke found himself being loomed over, "in all the wrong ways. So say that I do work for you. Are you going to expect me in your bed?"

"Well, no. I just," wanted to keep him close and had no idea how to go about asking for it, "want to make sure you're taken care of. You can live in the barracks, or stay in darktown. It's up to you, but if the templars do show up at the barracks they'd have to get through an army of skilled mercs."

"Who's impossible to talk to?" Anders huffed out an exasperated breath. "You've just laid out what your company wants for me. I asked you what _you_ wanted from me."

Hawke stared ahead of him wordlessly, having an idea of what he wanted but it was formless, and a part of himself considered it unattainable. He stroked his hands up and down Anders' sides, touching affectionately without a goal of something more in mind, looking down to avoid that burning gaze and biting his lower lip raw.

"Don't clamp up on me, Hawke, not after last night. Tell me what you've already told me."

Anders planted his hands to either side of Hawke, definitely looming - he didn't mind, and that in itself was a surprise - with his hair lightly mussed with oil and wax from lying on Hawke's chest, face shadowed, a slight furrow between his brows.

"I want," Hawke licked his lips. "I want you to stay."

"Better," Anders gave a soft brush of lips as a reward for small concessions, a ground of his hips that caused both of them to moan softly promising more to come if he'd only give a little.

"I want you with me," he wrapped his arms around the mage, not pulling him closer, just adding his presence, always aware of his strength. Even now he did not lose his ability to bargain to sweeten the pot, "for as long as you want to stay."

A quick way to drive the mage away would be to demand his presence or even ask for a commitment. An apostate's life was always a cage, and he learned that growing up with his father running from town to town. The most he could do for Anders was to give him a cage of his own with the door wide open.

"You do make it hard to say no," Anders grinned against his mouth. When he pulled back enough for them to see each other, his eyes were sparkling, "and where do you want me to stay?"

 _The barracks,_ he was about to say, within sight but not too close, but he knew Anders would settle only for all or nothing. Some people did not negotiate very well, idealists, the lot of them, but he surmised that was what he wanted from Anders, some idealism to counter his own inner cynic.

"With me. In my house, in my room," Hawke kissed a line up Anders' jaw, letting his teeth travel over the rough stubble until he reached the soft earlobe, where his tongue snaked out to swipe against its tip. He whispered hoarsely, warm air brushing against the shell of the ear, "in my bed."

Anders shuddered against him, the well spring of control he had over his mind not applying well at all to his body, and when Hawke moved a hand down to the cleft of his arse, brushing a finger against the sensitive rosette, Anders lifted himself in offering. His cock, already half-hard, filled out the rest of the way to rub roughly against Hawke's hip.

"Yes," Anders couldn't decide which he wanted more, the friction to the front of him, steel core wrapped in velvet soft skin a gritty rub without oil, or to push back against the finger that teased at his entrance.

"Is that a yes you'll stay, or yes you want some more of this?" One arm still clutching around Anders' back, Hawke spoke softly into his ear, and Anders realized too late that he had unwittingly allowed the man to have the upper hand again.

Neither of them wanted him to concede, so Anders tucked himself into the crook of Hawke's neck, nose nuzzling against his pulse and stuttering out, "more."

"Wrong answer," though he did not sound displeased, the grip he had on Anders' arse tightened ever so little, and in one smooth, vertigo inducing motion, Hawke flipped them together to pin Anders under him.

He slid his hand up his thigh and away from where Anders wanted him, and Anders whimpered in protest until Hawke's hand moved to cradle under his knee, opening him wide and hooking that leg above Hawke's shoulder. The head of his cock rested squarely against his entrance, its wide tip nudging him, slick only with precum and naught else.

Anders shivered in both anticipation and fear, not knowing what to expect yet from him, and Hawke turned his head to kiss the inside of Anders' knee.

"Should trust me enough to know I won't hurt you by now," he concentrated a moment, and the oil candle, whatever grease left inside congealed to a gel and cold, flew into his hand in a line from the floor. "Telekinesis. This and basic fire are the only spells I know."

To demonstrate, he first lit the sconces around the room, then he allowed heat to seep through the bottom of the candle tin, melting enough wax to coat both his thumbs. Anders groaned as he was breached, four fingers and palm firmly on his arse as one thumb pushed into him, recalling that Hawke had big hands but a thumb was just short of long enough.

Hawke was out to torture him; his free hand slipping under between his thigh and his balls, thumb rubbing the ring of muscle where it was so sensitive, outside, as he clenched against Hawke's other thumb on the inside.

"You fucking tease," Anders cussed, fingers digging into the pillow and pushing against Hawke trying to get him to move deeper, but his legs were trapped and the angle of the thumb inside him was all wrong.

Without warning, Hawke's hand tightened even more over his arse, gripping and pulling him open to one side, and he slipped his other thumb inside. Instead of using his mouth to curse now, Anders wailed, feeling full and stretched as Hawke slowly pumped both thumbs in as far as he could, then slipping them nearly out.

"Are you saying you want more?" The pumping motion stopped, and the hands were pulling Anders open, rough calloused pads rubbing against his walls inside, while the backs of his fingers brushed along the sensitive skin of his sac.

Anders' entire lower body was seemingly taken prisoner, locked between those large hands. He could technically reach down and touch himself, but he was too enveloped in those hands to want to find out the consequences of such an action. One thumb started sliding out of him independently of the other, and he whined at the loss.

It was infuriating how pliant he became in Hawke's hands, literally.

"More it is, then." Hawke smiled, shifting and turning one hand.

Anders wanted to call him an arrogant bastard - cocksure was the word here but he didn't want to voice it, it'd only give him ideas - but he was cut short and the knuckles nudging under his balls turned into fingers brushing over his cock. He moaned instead, instinctively thrusting, but his arse was held with a steely grip and the thumb inside him was still anchoring him in place, exactly where Hawke wanted him.

"Maker's breath, the faces you make. I can do this all day." Hawke began to move, his thumbs pushing into Anders alternating with each other to create an unending roll of sensations, both in and out at the same time, while his fingers only went along for the ride, on one side buried in his cleft, sliding, and the other fanning up his cock from side to side.

Anders could only submit to this feeling of being entangled by Hawke, both surrounding and invading. Hawke stared at him with his mouth slightly agape, the fascination there matching his words, his own need weeping slightly, lying atop Anders' thigh.

"I want you inside now," Anders pleaded, wording it like a demand but his tone was lined with so much want it quivered.

"If you're worried about me, don't. I want to watch you fall apart in my hands and I don't want," his hands stopped suddenly as he shifted again, this time slipping two fingers inside to replace one thumb, long enough and at the perfect angle crooking to reach his spot. "Don't want any distractions."

Those two fingers turned the skin-deep touches into molten, white hot pleasure at his core down his spine, and his cries soon turned into incoherent calls and whimpering. He was aware, remotely, that Hawke was chuckling against his knee, but those hands were overwhelming all else making it hard to focus on one part of his body or another, one thumb anchoring and stretching him, two fingers rubbing circles gently right over that spot, exposed by the angle and the expert way he was held open.

And all the while, Hawke gazing down at him in wonderment and affection, as though his pleasure and his wants were the most important things in the world. Anders let himself be pulled along by it, a torrent of something unnameable and warm, liquid heat pooling at the base of his cock, spreading through his veins and reddening his ears.

As if he needed any more evidence that sleeping with Hawke quite possibly ruined him for anyone else, the thumb inside him and the fingers over his cock both withdrew, instead, Hawke's hand smoothed up over his abdomen. Before he had a chance to whine about it, finger and thumb ghosted over one nipple, and came down to pinch with a slight twist.

It must have been hard enough to hurt, but he only felt a shot of almost-pain that flared and connected with the pressure already building all along his insides, lighting a slow burning fuse, and his body jerked involuntarily while his orgasm rippled soft and long and gentle, no real dividing line, an undulating blanket of sensations slowly moving from one end of the spectrum to the other.

When he thought the aftershocks had ended, another pinch to his nipple set it off anew, like his electricity trick, but it wasn't a shock to nerve endings, just an intuition that knew exactly how to keep the pleasure running as long as Anders was willing to let go.

When finally Hawke decided to set him free, he could barely focus or move, his limbs leaden as Hawke's hard body came down to drape over his own. Kisses rained down along his jaw, mouth nipping along his lower lip reminding him that he still had his mouth open, and he snapped it shut, Hawke chuckling at his reaction as he did so.

It took him more time to calm down enough to find his voice again, Hawke making no move at all to push for more of anything, as if his own needs were easily forgotten if Anders was sated, body curling behind his in a protective cradle of warmth.

"You said you want me to stay," Anders said, voice rough from screaming out his pleasure.

"No," Hawke said, his tone flat and enigmatic, causing Anders' heart to beat faster, anxiety heavy in his gut. He turned, and seeing the small smile crinkling Hawke's eyes, Anders was bewildered.

He echoed, "no?"

Hawke kissed the space between his eyes, pressing his lips reverently to one temple, the tip of his nose, the edges of his cheekbones. Lastly he kissed Anders' mouth, chaste and nearly disappointing, pulling away to grin at the pout framed by dark stubble that silently asked for more kisses.

"I want to give you," _my_ , he paused, eyes darkening with unnamed emotion, leaving one word unsaid and hoping that his meaning came across without being demanding, "everything."

Anders' mouth opened, but all that came out was a choked sob that he would deny to his dying breath. Blinking away the tears that blurred everything into halos, he kissed Hawke back, hoping to distract him from his lapse of control, but if the tenderness in the arms that encircled him was anything to go by, he already saw how Anders reacted to his words.

It was never answered, though Hawke never phrased it as a question. It was another bartering trick, that, but he didn't even mean to lock Anders into his gift of himself, only that he meant it with every pulse in his veins.

He could see their future before him, the days of work and nights of simple and not so simple pleasures, pictures flashing against his eyelids. Time was a fluid thing, undefinable and strange, and this suddenly felt familiar, deja vu, a point in his past travels. Hawke was hit with a strong, overwhelming sense of oneness, when he realized what he wanted finally, not to take, but to give; the moment ineffable.

Then Anders was looking up at him, a hand at his cheek. Hawke leaned into the touch, where his words fell short he could at least give this, reassurance of everything he felt with touch.

"Hawke," the tears were at the corner of his eyes and his voice was rough still, with a panic that wasn't there before. "Can I ask you for something?"

"Anything you want," Hawke said, earnest.

"I want," Anders' tears flowed freely, before he clenched his eyes shut as though in prayer. "I want you to come back. Please, wake up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was both the missing scene between the end of City of Chains and its epilogue, as well as a continuation of the last chapter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mummer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/710013) by [zillah1199](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah1199/pseuds/zillah1199)




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